The Tailored Knight
by ohmycroft
Summary: Harry used to think it was impossible to survive a gunshot to the head. Soon enough he discovered that nothing was impossible - nothing, but the mission he was given by England's most powerful man: to keep the most unpredictable man in the world safe, when danger seemed to follow him wherever he went. Takes place after HLV and after the V-Day events. T for violence.
1. Rise And Shine

**A/N: Hi there! So I watched Kingsman yesterday, and since the moment Harry died I couldn't stop thinking about how quickly and easily they killed him off. It felt too sudden, and so this idea came to my head... The moment Eggsy called Merlin "Mycroft" I made the connection. So, hope you'll like it!**

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He could feel his toes. That was odd, wasn't it? He couldn't possibly be able to feel his toes after being shot in the head. He couldn't really remember anything from when it happened – all he remember is the loud _bang_ of a gun being fired, and hen nothing. Everything was just… Quiet. Peaceful.

Which was why he was so pleased with the fact that he could feel his toes. Because you can't feel your toes when you're dead, right?

He opened his eyes for a split of a second, and then instinctively shut them again, to shield them from the bright light that seemed to surround him. He opened them again, then, as he couldn't bear not knowing where he was.

He was in a hospital, or at least a hospital room, as expected. He scanned the room from right to left, picking up on every single detail in his way, as if he were on a mission. As a matter of fact, he was. But how did that mission end? And more importantly – how did it end up with him being alive?

Just as he got to the left-most corner of the room, he noticed he was not alone. An unknown man was sitting on a chair besides his bed, and his bright blue eyes were piercing his head with an inquisitive stare.

"You're up," the man said casually without any introduction, "Good."

"Excuse me if I'm being rude," he manage to blurt, and then winced slightly in pain as talking made his atrocious headache even worse, "But who the hell are you?"

"You've never heard of me?" the man asked, appearing almost insulted. When he didn't reply, the man's insulted expression turned into a small humourless grin. "Well, that means I'm doing my job right."

Harry pushed himself a little further up, ignoring the sharp pain that escorted the movement, so he would appear to be sitting on the bed rather than lying on it. It wasn't such a big improvement but it made him feel slightly less inferior to the man sitting beside him, who was clearly a man of importance.

"My name is Mycroft Holmes," he finally said in an almost arrogant tone, and Harry's brows furrowed. This man was wearing a suit that was clearly tailor-made, had a Kingsman ring on his right hand – he looked like a Kingsman, but he wasn't one.

"You said that like I should care," Harry replied. His head was throbbing, and the last thing he needed at the moment was a mysterious man sitting by his bed.

"You really should."

"And why is that?"

Mycroft Holmes leaned back in his chair. "Because I'm the man that saved your life," he said nonchalantly.

Harry froze for a moment. "You don't know me, and I don't know you," he said, thinking out loud, "Why would you want to keep me alive?"

"Ah, Harry, after a life time of being a secret agent, I expected you to know that," Mycroft replied with a small condescending smirk. "Just because you don't know someone, that doesn't mean that someone doesn't know you."

He got up from his seat and started to pace in the room. "John le Carre once wrote: "Spying is waiting". I may not be a spy myself, but I know when it is time to act, and when it is time to sit back and wait," he spoke calmly, and sounded a bit bored, as if he'd already given someone that lecture before. "I've had my eye on you ever since you lost your Lancelot. A dedicated, hardworking agent whose fighting skills are just as good as his negotiation skills."

"You've just described every single agent in this organization," Harry interrupted. "Why me?"

Mycroft stopped in front of the hospital bed. "Because I've watched the way you treated young Eggsy," he said the name in clear contempt, "How you believed in him when he was nothing more than a street rat. I saw how you treated your superiors and your inferiors, and more importantly, your enemies."

"How is he?" Harry suddenly asked, a worried frown spread all over his face.

"Who is?"

"Eggsy. Gary," he corrected himself quickly, trying to sound more formal.

"I believe it's Galahad now," Mycroft said, and a faint yet honest grin played on his lips, fighting its owner's attempts to subdue it. "Your death has done wonders to him. As ridiculous as it sounds, he save the world," he sighed slightly as he spoke, and hints of relief were distinct in his words. "He took over your part. They would've given him the role of Arthur, but he's too reckless to be given such a responsibility."

Harry let out a breath he didn't realize he was keeping. He grew fond of the young man, as stubborn as he was. Now that he got that matter off his mind, it was time to address the current issue. "How am I alive?"

"Excuse me?"

"Valentine shot me in the head. Last time I checked, there was no cure to such a wound."

"Most people are just grateful to be alive, you know."

"Well, I'm not most people," the Kingsman said without any arrogance.

A bitter smirk appeared on Mycroft's face. "No, you definitely aren't. Which is why I'm surprised."

"Surprised by what?"

"Did you really think we were going to let go to that church defenseless? Like I just told you, spying means waiting. If I wanted to hire you, I needed an opportunity to cut your links to the world, to make you non-existent. I've had my experience with faking deaths, although it's much easier when the person knows they're going to fake their death," Mycroft said, half to himself, and then it dawned on Harry.

"Who knows that I'm alive?" he asked firmly, with a hazardous look in his eyes.

"Only the people in this room, and your doctor, which has sworn to secrecy. Not that I trust him, but I've made it very clear to him as to what would happen if he'd decide to betray my trust," said the government man coldly.

"So you kept me alive and convinced the world I'm dead. What for?"

"I need your…" Mycroft began.

"Help?" Harry suggested.

"Assistance," Mycroft corrected, the bitter smirk back on his lips. "You know how some people always end up being in the wrong place at the wrong time?"

Harry chuckled to himself as he thought of all the trouble Eggsy had managed to get into.

"Well, during "V-Day"," he continued in disgust, "My little brother was in the worst place at the worst time. As feeble as he might appear, he is a well-oiled machine when it comes to fights. In the short amount of time in which Valentine's plan was being executed, he had managed to kill twelve men. Two were CIA agents, and the rest were gang members and leaders. Ever since, his life is in a constant danger. I've already appointed agents to protect his friends and family, but my main concern is as to what kind of trouble he would get himself into until the threat is neutralized."

"I'm sorry, did you save my life in order to make me the body guard of your little brother?"

An arrogant humousless grin washed his face. "And here I was, thinking you wouldn't understand."

"Why would I care? Why would anyone care? He's just one man, one of millions."

Mycroft's grin vanished. "Like you perfectly phrased earlier, you don't know me. So believe me when I tell you that if anything bad happens to him, I would be very, _very_ irritated, and that would be the worst thing that could happen to this country, and to you, in particular," he spoke in a low voice, that was cold enough to make the threat unnecessary – just by looking at the hazardous look in his eyes Harry knew he did _not_ want to anger that man.

That didn't mean he was satisfied with complying, though.

"When do I start?" he asked tiredly.

The government man's calm mask was back now. "Right now. Ever heard of a man called Sherlock Holmes?"

"No."

"Then get ready."

"Get ready to what?"

"To have you secrets exposed in an instance," replied the older Holmes, with a genuine smirk on his lips.

**A/N: Soooo this is it for now! *grins***

**What did you think? Did you like it? Did you hate it? Just let me know! I'll be doing my best to update this as regularly as possible!**

**Have a great day! :)**


	2. One of a Kind

**A/N: Hi again! So I'm back, earlier than I originally planned, with a brand new episode! *cheers***

**I wanted to thank everyone that took the time to read this story, and double-thank everyone that bothered to review, favourite or add an alert to it! It means the WORLD to me, so thank you! *hugs***

**Okay, I should probably stop rambling now. So here it is, the second chapter! *grins***

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The moment he was back in his suit everything felt better. More natural, at least. When he was wearing the hospital gown, he was just a strange man in need for medical treatment. But in his suit, he was a well-trained agent, one of the best. In his suit, he was a Kingsman.

Mycroft Holmes arranged to have all his personal belongings sent to the room he was in, all of which fit in a single suitcase – a couple of suits, a new untraceable phone, his ring, his glasses, and other useful items. By the black suitcase lied his umbrella, which he picked up with delight. Apparently, his house was now Eggsy's. The young man could afford himself a new place, but Harry's house was big enough to have room for him and his mother, and Eggsy insisted on keeping it the way it was. Harry couldn't help but smile a bit as Mycroft told him that, which made Mycroft roll his eyes and throw a heartless remark about Eggsy – while referring to him as 'Mr. Unwin', of course.

Harry took his suitcase in one hand and his umbrella in the other and strode out of the room quickly, eager to get himself out of there and into the action. Using his instincts, he navigated through the unknown building, and eventually found himself standing outside of it, right in front of a black car with dark windows that was obviously waiting for him.

He put his suitcase in the boot and swiftly entered the car through the right door. He couldn't see the driver's face because he was sitting behind him, but this time he didn't care - because the other passenger of the car was what kept him interested. Mycroft Holmes was sitting right beside him, gazing out of the car's left window.

The car began to move, and Harry asked the obvious question. "Where are we going?"

"Two hundred and twenty one B Baker Street," replied Mycroft. "There's a basement in the same building, which will be your temporal home. I've already arranged a bed and the necessary items you'll need to live there. You have three tasks. One – keep my brother alive and away from danger. And trust me," he said with a bitter grin and glanced at him, "That's not as easy as it sounds. Two – keep his friends safe as well, because if anything bad happens to them he might go after the person who caused it, and that would contradict task number one. As unfortunate as it is, his sentiment takes the better of him," he said under his breath, and a tiny change was present in his eyes. They became darker, sadder, just for a second, and then it vanished as suddenly as it appeared. "And three," he turned his head to meet Harry's eyes, "If anyone tries to harm my brother, you will kill them. Even at the cost of your own life. However, do try to stay alive, because your fake death has cost a lot of money and resources and it will be a shame if they go to waste."

Harry held Mycroft's penetrating gaze, and asked in as steady a voice as he could, the question that had been bugging him ever since he opened his eyes. "Why me?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Why did you choose me?"

"I already told you why. I – " Mycroft started.

"No, you told me a lie. There are other good agents, other agents that trained others to be their replacement and other agents who are by far more patient than I am. So why _me_?"

Mycroft studied him for a moment, as if trying to determine whether he's worth knowing the truth. Then, he let out a quiet sigh and smirked dryly. "I should've known that a flat lie wouldn't work on you," he said, and his smirk faded. "Do you remember the church?" he asked.

Harry didn't need to reply, as he knew his eyes would reveal the answer. His mind was flooded with pictures and sounds – screams, guns, knives, and so much blood. "What happened there was not my fault," he replied with a slight tremor to his voice. "I had no control over myself."

"I know," the government man said. "And that is why I chose you."

Now it was Harry's turn to be baffled. "What?"

"You will be polite and harmless as long as possible, but the moment you see trouble, you attack. That is, as you said, just like every other agent, but you are the only agent that's ever shown their true abilities. The abilities that, when the time comes, must be used in order to win."

"If that's what you want me to do, I'm going to have to ask you to stop the car," Harry said coldly.

"I'm sorry?"

"If you hired me to be the beast I was when I was under someone else's control, then I'm afraid you'll have to shoot me in the head properly, because I will _never_ do that again."

Mycroft stared at him for a moment with a combination of disbelief and ridicule. Then, he let out a dry and humourless laughter. "Did you really think I was asking for your opinion?" he asked, and then turned serious again. "We put our own chip in your head. You will be under constant surveillance, and if I'll see that you're having trouble in completing one of your tasks, I will activate the chip, and you will slay anyone that gets in your way," he said in a deadpan voice. "If you will run away, turn against me or betray my trust, I will personally use the second function of the chip and kill you. And believe me when I say this death will be a much slower one."

Harry stared at the government man in astonishment and hatred. He didn't want to hate him, but the mere fact that he had such terrifying control over him made him despise the man.

"What are you?" he eventually asked. "You appear to be a government man of some sort, but you very clearly aren't. If I had to guess, I'd say you're a Kingsman."

"But?"

"But Kingsman doesn't hire heartless machines. We hire _people_, not bloody sociopaths," he completed, not bothering to hide the loathing that was dripping from his words.

Mycroft chuckled once, and then shifted his gaze to his umbrella. He held it out in front of him, and examined it like it was the first time he saw it. "Nice, isn't it?" he asked rhetorically. "Special design, only one of a kind. A personal favour from a former Kingsman. Does everything your umbrella does, even a bit more, but looks a bit less… Mundane," he said, and then looked up from it to meet Harry's eyes. "You are right about one thing – I am not an ordinary government man. Go against me, and you shall find yourself going against all of Britain," he threatened quietly, a hazardous look in his eyes.

The Kingsman agent didn't say a word. He broke the eye contact and gazed out of the window for several minutes, until the car finally stopped and they reached their destination. Without waiting for instructions, he opened the door and stepped out of the car. He opened the boot and took out his suitcase, and when he was sure no one could see him, he smiled to himself.

The great Mycroft Holmes had revealed his weakness to him – his brother, and when the time comes, he would use it against him.

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**A/N: Things are getting dark here... Harry is not the man to hate, but wouldn't you hate the person who has control over your behaviour and uses it for his own good? (Yes, I know it's for a good cause, but think about it for a moment)**

**So... What do you think? How will Sherlock react once he finds that Mycroft assigned him a bodyguard? What will John and Mary think? And how will Mrs. Hudson handle with the new commotion in her flat? Leave your opinions in the reviews!**

**Have a great day :D**


	3. Pleasure to Meet You

**A/N: Hello again! So sorry it's taken me so long to update, school chose the perfect timing to be overwhelming and time consuming. And when I say perfect, I mean worst.**

**Anyway, here's the third chapter! Thank you so much for keeping up with this story, I hope you'll like the new chapter!**

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Mycroft Holmes knocked three times, waited a moment, and then knocked five times again. Harry didn't have to ask why, as the reason was fairly obvious – now that his little brother's life was in danger, they had to ensure no one could come in without permission.

A short old lady opened the door for them. She gave Mycroft a small grin, which he ignored as he entered the flat. She frowned slightly when Harry followed him.

"And who are you?" she asked suspiciously. It didn't take a Kingsman to see being suspicious wasn't like her, and Harry wondered how bad things really were.

"This is Harry Hart," Mycroft said and gave the kind old woman a piercing look, "And he will stay in your available room, 221C."

She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could Mycroft continued.

"You will not argue or cause any kind of trouble. You will help him settle in, and his name and mere presence will be a secret from the rest of the world. As far as everyone else is concerned, Harry Hart is dead. If anyone would find out he isn't, they'd ensure it, and kill everyone else in this flat just to be certain. Am I being clear?" he hissed, his eyes locked on hers.

She nodded worriedly, and seemed more worried about everyone else's deaths than about her own. Her expression changed swiftly, and she gave Harry a warm smile. "I'm Mrs. Hudson, the boys' landlady. Do you want me to show you around now, or do you want to meet everyone first?" she asked kindly.

Harry was slightly taken aback. The cruelty of the mankind could never surprise him, but the genuine kindness only few have always amazed him. "Yes, meeting them would be lovely, thank you," he said with a small grin that he hoped didn't look too fake and offered her his hand for a shake.

She shook it with a short laugh. "Oh, I wouldn't use the word lovely to describe them," she said and made her way upstairs.

Mycroft climbed the stairs after her, and Harry followed him. He considered whether to leave his luggage downstairs or to carry it with him, but as he thought of the abilities of his umbrella he decided it was best to have it nearby. Just in case.

When he entered the flat, the first thing he noticed was the mess. Everything was so out of its place that it looked like it belonged there, like this is the organized state of the place. The second thing he noticed was the people in the room. Three new faces. Two men and one female. The woman was blonde, pregnant and appeared to be somewhat annoyed. In fact, she appeared to be the calmest person in the room. Even Mycroft with his blank mask appeared more tensed up than she was. The man sitting next to her had sandy coloured hair, and he looked as worried as a man who was about to be executed. He held the woman's hand tightly, so Harry assumed it wasn't his own life he was afraid for. The man glanced at them, and then turned his head to the third person in the room – a tall, dark-haired man with an arrogant expression and eyes as cold as his brother. It wasn't difficult to see the resemblance – even though they didn't look quite alike, their behaviour was clearly similar.

"Hello, brother dear," said the tall man sarcastically, "So nice of you to bring me presents."

"He's not a present," the older brother said in irritation. "His name is Harry Hart, and he's here to keep you safe."

"What a boring gift. Did you keep the receipt? You can't return it to the shop without it," the younger replied, appearing genuinely bored.

"I'm afraid he didn't, Mr. Holmes," Harry said, interrupting the brothers' bickering. "So I guess we're stuck with each other until you're safe."

The young Holmes raised an eyebrow. "A bodyguard with attitude. Good. Maybe not so dull after all," he said with a smirk.

"Jesus, Sherlock," the sitting man said under his breath and got up from the sofa. He offered his hand to Harry, who shook it firmly. To his surprise, the man returned an equally-firm handshake. "I'm John Watson, the dickhead's friend," he said bitterly and gestured with his head to Sherlock, though hints of amusement were clear in his voice. "And this is my wife," he said and gestured to the blonde woman who waved with a small smile, "Mary. And you are?..."

"Harry Hart, Mr. Watson."

"Please, call me John."

Harry gave him a small nod and cursed Mycroft internally. He made him feel like a butler, and he _knew_ he was enjoyed it.

"So why are you here?" John asked.

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but Mycroft preceded him. "He is a specially-trained agent, and he's here to keep you all safe," he said, although it was clear 'all' actually meant his brother. "He will stay with you and take care of any danger that might arrive. _Please_," he sighed and looked directly at his brother, "Let him do his job. I have enough on my mind even without you lot, and I don't have the time to handle five more bodies."

Even though Mycroft's voice sounded bored, tired and calm, everyone in the room could spot the true concern hidden beneath the surface.

"Don't worry, Mycroft," Sherlock said with a very fake smile, "I promise to play by the rules."

He was very clearly lying, but as Mycroft didn't really have another choice, he sighed to himself and walked to the door. Just before he left, he turned around and scanned everyone with his ice-cold eyes. "Take care," he said, very unlike himself, and left. Only Harry, whose eyes met Mycroft's right before he left, knew that this was a message to him: take care _of them_, or else…

John cleared his throat to break the awkward silence that was created in the government man's absence. "Right. So, Harry, what kind of an agent are you? MI6?" he asked, even though he knew the chances of getting an honest answer were very slim.

The Kingsman gave him a dry smirk. "I'm afraid I can't say."

"Thought so," John said and nodded.

"Has anyone told you what this is all about?" Mary asked.

"Mr. Holmes here was in the wrong place at the wrong time and slaughtered some very important and dangerous people. Therefore, now his life is in danger. Am I correct?" he replied in boredom.

He noticed then that the detective was staring at him with a frown. "Is anything wrong?" he asked, but the man remained frozen.

"Sherlock, please, not now," John turned to his friend and muttered.

"Not now? I'm trapped inside my flat, I can't find any clients, and you're asking me to not show off?" the detective snapped, his eyes finally moving from Harry.

John stared at him for a second. "Yes, that's exactly what I'm asking."

The two of them were quiet for a moment, each considering their options.

"The way he stands suggests some sort of military training, but nothing else says military, so it must've been a different kind of training, one that includes being a gentleman," the detective started, and John rolled his eyes and let out a tired breath. "He's been holding his umbrella very tightly since the moment he walked in, so he's either very upset about something or this umbrella is important to him. I'd say both. He very deliberately called us by our last names, but his face showed disgust when he said mine. I've seen it before lots of times – he hates something about my name. Usually it's because people hate me, but Mr. Agent here didn't have the pleasure of despising me yet. What else could he hate about me? My last name of course, the only thing I willingly share with my brother. Had he been an MI6 agent, he wouldn't have hated Mycroft – he would've been afraid of him. So Harry Hart is an agent of a secret organization that neither of us has heard of, and he is here against his will because of my brother, who believes he is a match to dozens of men and women who would happily take my life in any minute."

Out of the four other people in the room but Sherlock, three of them appeared to be somewhere between shocked and confused. The fourth one, however, chuckled humourlessly.

"I'm afraid to tell you that you and your brother share much more than just your last name, _Mr. Holmes_," Harry said in contempt. "You both believe you're smarter than everyone else, you both think that you're more powerful than everyone else, and you both certainly think that you're more dangerous than everyone else."

The consulting detective took a step forward towards Harry, who was still standing by the doorway. "And what if I am all those things?" he hissed, a hazardous look in his eyes.

"How many people have you killed during V-Day, Mr. Holmes?" Harry asked calmly, Sherlock's threats going right over his head.

Sherlock shrugged in false calmness. "Eleven, maybe twelve. I lost count."

"Good thing I counted mine."

"And what number did they all add up to? Did you even make it to a two-digits number?" Sherlock snorted.

"Thirty four," said Harry flatly. He has to suppress a grin when he saw the surprise in Sherlock's eyes, and the shock in everyone else's. "So I would suggest that you don't anger me, because I'm already pissed off, and you don't want to see what I'm like when I'm _really_ angry," he threatened, the consequences not even crossing his mind. His head was throbbing and he needed some rest, the sooner the better. "Mrs. Hudson, would you be kind enough to show me my room?" he turned to the old lady, who now couldn't meet his eyes.

"Your _room_?" asked John.

"I'm going to stay with you, in 221C. Have I not mentioned that?" Harry replied, hints of amusement in his voice.

He turned around and walked out of the room, knowing that the landlady would follow him immediately.

Ah, how good it felt to be in control again.

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**A/N: Ooooh, Harry is finally letting out some steam! I must admit, 34 was just a wild guess. I don't know how many people were in the church that day, I assume there were about 40, and since some killed each other without Harry's "help", that probably how many people he'd killed. **

**So... What did you think? Was it great? Was it terrible? How do you think Sherlock would react to having someone more mysterious and dangerous than himself in his flat all day? What kind of danger would rise? And would Mycroft really turn on the chip?**

**Thank you so much for reading this far, have a great day! *hugs tightly***


	4. Blitz Attack

**A/N: Hi again! I'm terribly sorry I haven't updated this story for so long, I was so very busy! But now everything has cooled down a bit, so I'm back for good *smirks***

**This chapter is relatively short, because I really wanted to upload it, just to let you know I haven't forgotten all about this.**

**Anyway, here's chapter 4!**

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He had known Sherlock Holmes would be intolerable. However, even a trained Kingsman like himself was not ready for someone like Sherlock.

The man seemed to draw danger to himself. In the ten hours Harry had been with him since he'd arrived in the flat, the detective managed to set two different parts of the flat on fire, blow up a hole in the ceiling and almost poison John's tea. The last of which was by accident, or so he claimed.

He lied down on his bed tiredly. It wasn't much of a bed, really, more like a lumpy old mattress that's just a couple of feet above the floor. He'd had worse, but the circumstances made him wish for a better room.

He let himself close his eyes, just for one moment. His headache was tormenting him and he was craving some rest, but the detective seemed determined to keep him up.

He realized he had fallen asleep only when the sound of three knocks woke him up. Someone came to visit Sherlock. The question was – were they invited?

The knocking rhythm was right, but Harry jumped up from his bed nonetheless. He managed to make it upstairs just as Mrs. Hudson opened the door.

The moment he saw the guns his instincts kicked in. He pulled Mrs. Hudson and placed her behind him and grabbed his umbrella. He put the handle around the first man's nape and threw him at the wall. The blow was hard enough to knock him out, and Harry swiftly pulled his umbrella back to him, just in time to pull out his gun and shoot the second man that attempted to enter the flat.

The sound of the shot was loud enough to attract attention from upstairs. Harry could hear John cried out in surprise and two sets of steps hurrying downstairs and knew he was running out of time before Sherlock was in their line of fire.

Three men were about to enter the flat. In a swift move Harry took a step outside and kicked the first man in the groin. Once he was bending over he shot the man behind him, ducked in time to dodge the third's bullet and then shot him as well. He went back to shoot the first one, completely unaware of the mess we was making outside the flat.

"What the _hell_ happened?!" John cried as he reached the front door.

Sherlock was right behind him, and they both stared at the bodies in shock. It only took them a couple of seconds to get downstairs, and yet the threat was already neutralized.

Without looking at the two, Harry pulled out his new phone from his jacket's pocket and called the only number that was on it without bothering to close the door.

"Five men. All armed. I need some cleaning up here," he said into the phone, not bothering with an introduction.

"_On its way. Do not open the door to anyone,_" Mycroft Holmes said through the phone, and Harry hanged up. He glanced at the still-open door and smirked to himself. Small victories.

He looked at the two men, who were still paralyzed in shock. Mrs. Hudson had already fled to her room. Watson was moving his stare between him and the bodies, not sure what shocks him more. Holmes' eyes were focused completely on his, and Harry tried to decipher their look. Was it fear? Surprise? Loathing? And maybe just a bit of… Admiration?

The Kingsman smoothed his suit and looked at the two of them calmly. "Don't open to the door to anyone," he said flatly, and started to talk back to his room.

"No, wait a minute," John said, and Harry stopped and turned around. "How did you do that?"

"Like Mr. Holmes had told you, I've had very special training."

"No one takes out five people so quickly without even blinking," John said, still staring at him in disbelief.

"You're right," he replied. "No one… But me."

He turned back to walk to his room, but this time it was the detective that held him back.

"Does it ever bother you?" the detective asked.

He turned around again. "What does?"

"That you've taken so many lives. Does it weigh on your conscience, or have you lost it a long time ago?"

He studied him for a second. No, he didn't ask that because he can't cope with killing people. He's too cold to care about that. This was purely at attempt to melt him down a bit.

Oh, how naïve other people are.

"Yes," he decided to reply, "Everything night before I go to sleep I think about all the lives that I've taken. And once I finish doing that, I put a plate of cookies and a glass of milk in the kitchen for Santa."

John chuckled once, but the amusement left his face as he realized what the real message was. Sherlock's eyes remained fixed on his, and the former tilted his head a bit, like a confused child. "Who _are_ you, Harry Hart?"

"You two can go back to your business," Harry said, very deliberately ignoring the question. "I'll wait for the cleanup team."

"Actually, I think it's time for us to go home," the army doctor said, his eyes moving from the Kingsman just then. "She'll kill me for not going upstairs to update her sooner," he said with the faintest of smiles and went back upstairs.

Harry was left alone with the detective. The two sized each other up, and Harry couldn't help but wonder what other surprises were waiting for them.

"You hate my brother," the detective remarked, not even bothering to present it as a question.

Harry didn't reply. Mycroft was probably monitoring them with secret cameras hidden all over the flat, and the only reason he didn't send a team earlier was to make sure Harry was following the rules. Telling his employer he hates him wouldn't exactly help his condition. Although if he was his employer, what did that make him?

He didn't have to say anything, though. A small cunning smirk appeared on the detective's face. "You might not be as boring as I first imagined," he said in a satisfied tone.

Before Harry could contemplate if he should be relieved or concerned, a group of four men approached the flat. They all seemed quite surprised to find the flat's door opened.

"Mr. Holmes," one of the men asked, completely ignoring Harry, "Are you alright?"

"Oh, yes," Sherlock replied, his eyes still on Harry's, "Everything is under control."

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**A/N: Everything's under control, eh? *scratches chin thoughtfully* I wonder what Sherlock is planning for our poor Harry... He already has to keep him safe, so let's hope this wouldn't get him into too much trouble!**

**So what did you think? Did you like our new development? Do you think Sherlock will grow fond of Harry? More importantly - Will Harry actually tolerate Sherlock?**

**Thank you so much for following this story so far. I love you all to the moon and back! *grins and hugs***


	5. A Breach in the Wall

**A/N: Hello again! Remember me? You probably don't, since it's been so long since my last update. Terribly sorry for that, I write too many things at a time so I keep getting distracted. This chapter is a bit longer than usual as a sort of compensation to you.**

**Thank you so much for keeping up with this story for so long! And thank you for reviewing, it really means a lot!**

**So please welcome chapter 5!**

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When Harry woke up the next morning, at first he was content. His headache had almost completely faded away and he was feeling much stronger than yesterday. With everything that was going on, he didn't really have time to recover from, well, dying.

An instance later he was worried. Sherlock Holmes, Britain's biggest arsehole, let him sleep all night through?

He got up from his bed, tidied up a bit, and glanced at his image in the small mirror Mrs. Hudson had hung for him on one of the walls. His suit was a bit at places – that's what happens when you sleep in your suit. He couldn't afford himself to change before bed – trouble always comes when it's least convenient, so he had to make sure all times were convenient.

He hurried upstairs to Holmes' flat, getting more and more worried with each step. He knocked on the door at first, being polite as always.

"Mr. Holmes?" he asked and waited three seconds for a reply.

When one didn't come, he tried to open the door. Fortunately, it was unlocked, although that was also a bad sign. He stepped inside slowly, listening very carefully to his surroundings.

"Good morning," a bass voice said, and he immediately turned around.

He found Sherlock Holmes standing in his kitchen, dressed in some sort of a lab coat and lab goggles, holding something that looked awfully like a thumb above a burner.

"What are you doing?" he asked as calmly as he could, trying to sounds casual.

"Burning a thumb," the detective replied lazily.

"I strongly advise you not to do that," he said.

"And why is that?" Sherlock asked with a smirk, not looking at the burning thumb anymore.

"You might start a fire or burn yourself, and more importantly, it has an atrocious smell."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, as if considering his options. Eventually he turned off the burner and put the tongs carelessly on the table, allowing the thumb to roll away from them a bit. Harry internally thanked his Kingsman training that had exposed him to things much more disgusting than that.

"I'm not burning it anymore. You can go now."

"So that you can entertain yourself by doing something even more dangerous?" Harry replied.

Sherlock gave him a toxic smile. "Now I'm bored to death and contemplating whether I should shoot the wall or you. What do you think would be more entertaining?"

Harry took in a deep breath, and with all the inner strength he had asked the question that made him feel his self-respect slowly descending. "What do usually do to keep yourself busy when you're bored? I'm sure there must be something safe you like to do."

Sherlock tilted his head like a curious child, but the look in his narrow eyes spoke far more than just curiosity. "You don't exactly strike me as the caring person, no offense," he added sarcastically. "So why do you try so hard to keep me safe?"

"I really do not care, no offense," he replied as sarcastically as the detective, "About you. But I have been given a task which I endeavor to complete, no matter how impossible you make it for me."

Sherlock blinked once as his eyebrows furrowed. "My brother's got something on you," he deduced. "I don't know what it is just yet, but there's something. There must be. It's the only logical explanation. But what is it that can scare you so much?"

The Kingsman's face remained a blank mask as always, but his eyes revealed a bit of his emotions. Just a small sparkle in them that informed Sherlock he was on the right trail which was gone in seconds. Harry hated the Holmes brothers, but the older one was worse.

There were three possible ways he could leave this job:

1\. He would do as Mycroft Holmes says until Sherlock would be safe.

2\. He would die protecting Sherlock.

3\. He would rebel against Mycroft Holmes at whatever cost.

The result of each of these ways was uncertain, the most likely one of all being death. As Kingsman had taught him, nothing is as important as controlling your temper and staying a gentleman even when the circumstances make it difficult. But sometimes, being a gentleman wasn't doing what you were asked. Sometimes, it meant waiting patiently and calmly until the right chance to attack and to restore your honor.

From that moment, Harry Hart had a new plan.

"Mr. Holmes, you know I can't allow you to leave the flat," he suddenly said, speaking as if they were in the middle of a conversation.

"I never said anything about leaving the flat," the detective said with a frown, not yet catching on.

"It is would be an extremely dangerous and irresponsible thing to do, and you know I swore to your brother I'd keep you safe," Harry continued, giving Sherlock a penetrating look to send him a wordless message.

"Oh please, do you really think outside is more dangerous than inside?" Sherlock scoffed, finally realizing Harry's intentions. "Guns work just as well in both, so I might as well go outside for a walk."

"I'm afraid I can't allow that, Mr. Holmes," Harry insisted and moved his head ever-so-slightly towards the door in a micro-gesture to Sherlock.

"You can either stay or join me, but I'm leaving," Sherlock announced and stormed out of the flat in seconds.

Harry hurried up down the stairs after him, letting a small smirk on his face as he descended the stairs. He found the detective waiting by the door outside impatiently. "Mr. Holmes, look out!" he suddenly cried and hurried outside, closing the door behind him.

They stood in front of each other for a second in silence, each eyeing the other, waiting for the next move.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked in a much quieter tone than they've used before.

"I thought I saw someone approaching you, but I must've imagined it. I apologize for frightening you."

Less than a second later, his phone rang. Since only one person had his phone number, it wasn't too hard to understand who was calling him.

"_Perhaps I haven't been clear enough. Keeping my little brother unharmed means keeping him inside his flat. The moment anything bad happens to him, I will personally put you in a room with your friends Merlin and Eggsy and activate the chip. Am I making myself clear?_" Mycroft Holmes' furious yet collected voice came through the phone.

"As day," Harry replied nonchalantly and hung up the phone.

"Well?" Sherlock immediately asked.

"Whatever he has, it is inside the flat. Could either cameras or wires, no way of telling at the moment," he answered the unspoken question in a voice quite enough to not penetrate the flat's closed door.

"So there's a breach in his security," Sherlock completed his thoughts.

Harry opened the flat's door and gestured with his hand to Sherlock to enter. The latter gave him a small nod as he entered his flat. Harry entered after him and closed the door behind him.

"Would you like me to ask Mrs. Hudson to prepare you something to eat? Digesting might keep you entertained," Harry suggested, as if they were still having the same conversation from minutes ago.

"How about _you_ make me something to eat?" the detective made a different suggestion with a sly smile. "I'm sure you're a better cook than you appear to be."

"If you insist," Harry obliged and began to ascend the stairs. _You little prick¸_ he thought, _we just made a pact to betray your brother's trust, and you keep insulting me?_

He opened the fridge as Sherlock lied down lazily on the sofa. There was almost nothing in it, but those three ingredients would have to do. He kept opening drawers until he found things that appeared remotely edible, and he gathered his ingredients on the kitchen table as he wondered what he could possible do with all of those random items.

A low _thud_ was heard. It wasn't too loud, but it was loud enough for the Kingsman's trained ear. His eyes jumped up to search for the source of the voice. It seemed to come from Sherlock's bedroom. Another was heard, and this time Sherlock picked up on it too. The two exchanged glances, both agreeing on one thing – danger was coming. It didn't take the Kingsman long to understand how was the break-in possible – Sherlock had blown a hole in his bedroom's ceiling the day before. Harry wondered if the man had had any sleep since they first met.

Harry cursed himself under his breath for leaving his umbrella downstairs. He grabbed the first weapon he could see, which was unfortunately a pan. That, plus his ring and shoes, had to do this time. He moved stealthily towards the room and stopped as he heard the same noise for the third time. _Alright, three versus one_. _I've had worse_.

A shiver went down his spine when he heard the unmistakable sound of weapons being loaded and cocked. He made himself a mental note to never let his umbrella out of his sight again. He began to move back into the living room when he realized the detective was standing right behind him.

"One of them has a prosthetic leg," Sherlock whispered in his ear. "Another one isn't very familiar with their weapon of choice."

Harry gave him a firm nod. "Go to the kitchen and don't come back here until I say so."

"Oh, _please_," Sherlock scoffed.

"Do it now," Harry demanded.

He slowly backed away when he heard the detective mutter something that was very likely a curse as he went to the kitchen like he was requested. He pressed his back against the living room's wall, his face peeking into the hallway just enough to see the door.

It was opened silently, as the intruders clearly thought they had been quiet enough and still had the upper hand. Harry pulled his head away from the hallway and listened as the first man made his way outside the room. He didn't make his move just yet. He let the first man reach the end of the corridor before he struck – he had always preferred fights in open spaces.

He hit the man's face with the pan and sent his knee to the man's groin to eliminate him quickly. He put his hand up to protect his head from the bullets that were now flying in his direction and used his other hand to pull the man's gun. It was quite too heavy for his taste, but not something he hadn't used before. He backed away into the living room as the two intruders began to spray the hallway with bullets. He waited until they were seemingly done, and then took one calculated shot to the second man's chest. He missed and hit his gun-holding hand, which was a rather good alternative.

The man dropped his gun to the floor and bent over, holding his injured hand in the other one and swearing loudly. Harry tried to shoot the third man, but the latter was already pointing his own weapon at him so the former's shot merely scratched the man's shoulder. As he noticed the first man was beginning to come to his senses, he shot his head quickly. It caused quite a splatter of blood and earned him a look both disgusted and impressed from Sherlock, but it was the fastest way, and at that moment speed was all that mattered.

Harry needed to think, and he needed to do it quickly. Their guns wouldn't be as effective now that the sides are close to each other, but Harry still needed a way to neutralize the other side's weapon. He had a hand grenade in his pocket, but this chaos had started because of an explosion in the building – causing another one wouldn't be the smartest thing to do.

The second man came rushing forward, ready to have revenge for his injured hand. Unfortunately for him, he was facing the wrong enemy for that. The Kingsman swiftly grabbed his match's hand and squeezed it with all his force. The man fell to his knees in pain, which allowed the Kingsman to hit his head with the back of the gun. The man fell to the floor, unconscious, and Harry pushed the edges of his pants just slightly higher with his foot. That wasn't the man with the prosthetic leg, and neither was the first one, which meant the remaining man was.

"The left one!" Sherlock shouted to him, understating his train of thought.

Harry shot the man's left leg, knowing that the prosthetic leg wouldn't be of much use without the healthy one. The man fell to the floor screaming in pain, and Harry hurried to him. He kicked the gun from his hands and placed his right foot on the man's throat.

"Who sent you?" he asked in a deadpan voice that made it perfectly clear he wasn't afraid to apply pressure to the bloke's throat.

"I ain't telling you," the man replied, although his Irish accent narrowed down Harry's list of options.

The Kingsman leaned on his right leg, causing the man to make some very unpleasant noises as he tried to get air into his lungs. "Who sent you?" he asked again.

"Devlin!" the man whimpered, desperate to breath properly again.

Harry took his foot of the Irish's throat and let him take one deep breath before he shot his head.

He pulled out his phone and dialed the only number it contained. "Three men, sent by Devlin. Two dead, one unconscious."

"_They're on their way_," Mycroft replied with a sigh that indicated he was more tired than he was concerned and hung up the phone.

Harry slid his phone back into his pocket and walked back to the kitchen, to find a slightly shaken consulting detective in it. "When your brother's men get here, tell them to take care of the bloody hole in your ceiling. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll have my morning shower."

He left the flat after that without waiting for a response from Sherlock. A small voice in his head told him that he should act more like a gentleman towards Sherlock, that he should pay respect.

The rest of his head answered that voice with some very unpleasant words.

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**A/N: Here's the action Kingsman is so full of! You didn't think everything was going to go so smoothly for our favourite Kingsman, now did you? *smiles cunningly***

**And what was that? An alliance between Sherlock and Harry? *gasps theatrically* What would they do next? How can Harry rebel against Mycroft with that chip in his head?**

**All that and more will be answered in the next chapters of the story! But for now... Goodbye! *grins and waves***


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